"Was it her who called?"
In the opulent and spacious living room in Wen Xuanming's home, where it was evident that much effort had gone into the decor, five or six people were seated. The one asking Wen Xuanming this question was a man among them wearing black-framed glasses, his hair short and unkempt. He looked quite ordinary in the face, but his attire was meticulous: a tailored black version of the Chinese tunic suit, impeccably neat, exuding a grave and solemn aura. Overall, he gave off an air of an unfathomably profound intellectual.
Wen Xuanming, sweating profusely, nodded. The man with glasses continued to question him, "It wasn't a peace offer?"
Wen Xuanming replied awkwardly with a strained smile, "It doesn't seem so..."
Instead, it felt like a precursor to a confrontation.
